


feverfew

by fantasticdevilry



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:14:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28243008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fantasticdevilry/pseuds/fantasticdevilry
Summary: Sometimes the haughty fey lord who enticed you into selling your mortality for corrupting occult powers is laid low by a mild case of pneumonia and, really, what choice do you have but to take care of him?
Kudos: 4





	feverfew

**Author's Note:**

> Completely ignoring where medical science was at this point in the real world because it's a fantasy setting and I didn't want to make my character shrug and go "it's probably ghosts, here's your cocaine prescription"

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing is _wrong_ ," Andrew snapped, sprawled out over a particularly mossy log as though it were a chaise longue. He didn't even bother looking at Frey as they approached, one spindly arm draped over his eyes—the long sleeve of his coat covered all four of them. On the branches of a maple tree nearby, a murder of crows regarded Frey with preemptive, tired sympathy; the doctor merely shrugged in response as they made their way to Andrew's side, autumn leaves crunching underfoot.

"If nothing is wrong, I suppose the histrionics are merely for fun," Frey observed. Standing beside him now, they could clearly hear his labored breathing and the sad little sniffles that accompanied it. They graciously pretended not to notice that Andrew was peering at them from beneath his coat as they took a seat on the forest floor, smoothing out their black skirt. "You ought to get a new hobby."

Groaning, Andrew sat up, auburn hair spilling over his shoulders. Frey didn't put much stock in his pallor—green was a remarkably unhealthy shade for an Obsolite anyway—but they immediately recognized the red around his eyes and nose, the way he squinted and looked at them like a wary stray cat. There was another sniff, and then a cough. "I feel dreadful, _a mhuirnín_ ," he said with a sigh, putting one hand to his forehead. "I fear I'm not long for this world."

"It seems as though you have a cold."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm clearly dying." Andrew scoffed. "Some doctor you are."

Frey elected to close their eyes instead of rolling them. Ever since they'd stopped wearing masks when they visited the Tulgey Wood, it had been difficult to adjust to how clearly their emotions showed on their face. Difficult, but not entirely unpleasant. "Yes, you're probably right. But let's be certain," Frey said, reaching one hand up to press the back of it against Andrew's forehead. Frey's hands had a natural tendency to be cool, but even so, Andrew was far warmer than usual. Also of note was the curious way he leaned forward, closing his eyes and forgetting himself for a few moments at the relief of something chilly pressed against him.

Frey withdrew their hand and, frowning, turned to root in the small medical bag at their side. Fortunate that they'd stopped through on their way home from the hospital. "I'd like to listen to your lungs and heart," they said. "You feel feverish to me."

All of Andrew's sick weariness vanished when he saw the glint of metal off the stethoscope in Frey's hands. He snapped up straight, backing away further down the log. " _In ainm Chroim_ —are you trying to kill me, you bloody fool?! Put that infernal thing away!"

The force of his objection was enough to stop Frey in their tracks. This seemed a far stronger protest than usual from him. "Andrew, it's only a stethoscope," they said gently, turning the long metal listening device over in their hands. "It's so I can hear without having to—"

His playful dramatics were gone; only a bitter anger Frey couldn't understand lingered on Andrew's face now. He spat what Frey assumed—correctly—was another curse. "It's the iron. It burns us," he admitted through gritted teeth, as though simply saying so was painful enough. "Now put your wretched little instrument back in your bag."

Frey did put their wretched little instrument back in their bag. "Fine." Their black bag clicked shut. "It's not strictly necessary, anyway. Come here."

Before Andrew could oppose again, Frey had shuffled closer, taking one of his hands in theirs and pulling him forward once more. Kneeling before him as he sat, they could perfectly press their ear to his bare chest, and did so, heedless of the fey's strangled noise of confusion. "Hush, please," Frey murmured, eyes closed in concentration. "Breathe in deeply for me."

Perhaps too flabbergasted to do anything but obey, Andrew took in a deep breath—or attempted to. Beneath his skin, Frey heard his lungs rattle, phlegmy and wet. 

His heart rate was also suspiciously elevated. This had nothing to do with his illness, something anyone _except_ for the trained medical professional in the scenario could have recognized.

"I'll be back shortly," Frey said, standing up and brushing themself off. Even at their full height, with Andrew sitting so low to the ground, they could still just about look one another in the eyes. "I'd like to give you a mild antibiotic. I don't think this is anything serious, but it's better to be safe than sorry."

"If you intend on coming back with that poison, then don't come back at all," Andrew rasped, though there was no real bite behind it as he settled back onto his makeshift chaise.

Frey merely smiled. "Then it's unfortunate for you that you've already given me a key."

* * *

With enough practice, Frey didn't even need Andrew to pull them into the wood anymore. Their own garden was a door, now, and they stepped through in a shower of rose petals to find Andrew exactly where they'd left him, a flowery teacup in his hand.

There was something pathetically endearing about all of Andrew's usual bombast turning into a glamorously sulky pity party, though they'd never voice it. Frey was reminded of Furfur after the rare occasions they'd had to bathe him; this would also not be said out loud for fear of genuine physical harm.

"I see you're still alive," Frey said as they took a seat on the edge of his chaise, forcing him to nudge over. "Promising."

"You don't understand, foolish little creature." Frey couldn't pinpoint exactly why that phrase in particular felt like a term of endearment coming from him, but there was always an unexpectedly tender quality to his voice when he said it, as though he were speaking to something precious. It warmed them, and they wondered if that was even his intent. "This isn't supposed to _happen_ to me anymore."

The moment the words left Andrew's mouth, Frey could tell he regretted it. He folded inward on himself just a little further, tilted his haughty chin a bit higher as he looked away.

Of course. It embarrassed Frey, that they hadn't understood sooner. Fey were above things like silly Obsolite illnesses— _Andrew_ was above those things—and if Andrew could be laid low by something as insignificant as a cold—

—then perhaps he hadn't killed his Obsolite nature as thoroughly as he'd hoped.

What Frey said was, "I imagine you caught it from me."

Andrew's eyebrows raised. "Er, pardon?"

"I've been coming here a lot more lately. Sometimes right after work. It's entirely likely I exposed you to something new. So… there's really no way you could have avoided getting this, especially given how isolated you are."

_You can blame me, if it will help. If it makes you feel less vulnerable. I don't mind, as long as you don't mean it._

"Anyway," Frey breezed on, not seeing the way Andrew looked at them like a rare and precious flower as they looked through their bag, "you're quite healthy, so you'll be feeling better in no time. Especially after you take these."

They turned around just in time for Andrew's face to settle back to a grimace.

" _Peata_ , I know we had a rough start, but surely poisoning a sick man goes against your ideals..."

One of Frey's manicured brows twitched in irritation. "Andrew, what do you think penicillin is made of?" They rolled one of the tablets between their thumb and forefinger, fixing their steely gaze on him as they did.

"I believe I've been quite clear what I think it is."

"It's a _fungus_ , you beautiful idiot. Penicillium chrysogenum." The irony did not escape them. Frey leaned over him, pressing the white pill into his hand. "Now stop mewling and take it, or I'll get my needles."

Andrew's golden eyes narrowed. "Have any of your patients ever told you that you have a terrible bedside manner?"

"Only the exceptionally difficult ones," Frey replied. It took longer than it should have for their hand to leave his, dragging their fingers across the flat expanse of his palm as it went. "Now, are you going to be a good boy for me?"

Uncertainty flickered in Andrew's eyes as he glanced from Frey's face back to the little antibiotic pill in his hand. Frey had to act quickly, or his petulance would win out; and while it was fun to argue back and forth, the thought of Andrew staying sick made their stomach turn.

It was a nasty cold. Nothing more. If anything, they were feeding into his dramatics by causing a fuss. But an animal fear whispered _what if, what if, what if it happens again_ , and Frey couldn't bear it. 

Frey sat up, giving Andrew room to breathe, and their expression turned downcast. "Please?" they asked, voice soft. "It's just… I feel bad enough about getting you sick in the first place, and now I can't even help you get better… What a terrible excuse for a healer I am." They touched their mouth gently, looking away.

They were definitely laying it on a little thick. But it was no worse than any time Andrew did this. Let the fey have—pardon the expression—a taste of his own medicine, for once.

Frey heard him sigh, and then the rustling of his clothing as he sat upright, and had to repress their triumphant smile. "Alright, alright… _A Mhaighdean Mhuire_ …" Andrew mumbled. "There's no need to look quite so despondent. If it'll make you stop sulking like a child, I'll take it."

"Thank you," Frey said, their gratitude sincere, and handed him the brown glass bottle of tablets. "Take one three times a day—"

"Three times?!"

"—and make sure you finish all of them, even when you start to feel better." Frey's gaze was even and steady. "I'll know if you don't."

Andrew coughed again, and with a grimace, washed the antibiotic down with a swig of tea. " _Ifreann fuilteacha_ , now I'm certain you're trying to poison me," he croaked.

"If I was actually trying to poison you, you'd never know." Frey smiled. "Keep drinking tea, by the way. Lemon and honey to help soothe the irritation from coughing. And make sure you get lots of rest."

They started to move, to leave him in peace to sleep it off, until they saw the look on his face. _Don't go._

He'd never ask out loud—he was far too prideful. But with his hair stuck to the sweat on his skin, his chest rising and falling, the uncharacteristic lethargy in his movements… Frey wasn't eager to leave, either. 

"...I want to monitor you for a little longer, though," they said. "Move for a moment."

Ignoring his grousing, Frey sat on the end of the chaise, resting Andrew's head in their lap. Their cool hands pressed against his forehead once more, and they couldn't help grinning at the way he relaxed into their touch. They threaded their fingers through his hair, the way they'd dreamed of so often and only dared to a few times before, and watched him drift to sleep in the golden sunshine of the woods.

**Author's Note:**

> over the course of writing this, i did learn this: "Laennec invented the stethoscope because he was not comfortable placing his ear directly onto a woman's chest to listen to her heart."


End file.
